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Rated: 13+ · Novel · Dark · #1820489
The story of a woman going through hardships and finding her purpose in life.

              I was crazy, that had to be it. For in my hands I held my newborn son. He was amazingly beautiful and fortunate that he was one of those babies born with a full head of hair. I smiled at him and he seemed to gawk back at me. Would he realize I was his mother? Would he understand what I had to do? The thing that had worried me most about the child was he didn’t cry. As soon as he was brought into this cold, senseless, delusional, and awful world… he was silent. Perhaps this was a miracle, but perhaps it was just in his chemical make-up. I wanted to go for the latter, but that seemed too optimistic. I closed my eyes to catch my breath, for some reason my lungs refused to work properly when I looked at him. I wondered what inside my soul made my body yearn to fear him. No, fear wasn’t the correct word, perhaps repulse, reject, and maybe even disapprove. I did not, and would never fear him. His bones were too tiny, his brain un-developed. He was a human at one point, forced into something he was never meant to be. It made my stomach churn, and instantly I had to look away from his tear-less eyes again.

         “Oh dear, why don’t you cry? Is that how it works for your kind? Do you not understand pain?” I was still looking away, as if distracted by something on the wall. Of course, the baby just kept his eyes fixed to my face, not answering for he does not yet know he was born with an understanding of the language I speak. I could barely take much more, but I wasn’t ready yet. So I strained my refusing eyes to peak back at him. I found nothing that would be harmful to me resting behind them. I still had an uneasy feeling, but somehow the muscles in my eyes became frozen, immovable. His emotion quickly changed, mystified or baffled. It was as if he appeared to be set aback by me not saying anything anymore. Perhaps by me looking back at him with pleading eyes, begging him to leave himself alone; I was certainly insane.  Suddenly I understood that I was reaching my limit. This boy in my hands, my son, my only, and yet, the one that I wanted off this planet the most was unaware of the fate that I was about to bring him.

         I drove my mind to tell the muscles in my lips to function. Then I lightly pressed them to his cold forehead—it was like he was already dead. I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply. Then cradled him close, about thirty seconds passed before I could bare no more, and I knew the time had come.

         “Doctor!” I called, trying to sound urgent.

         He arrived as if he had been waiting right outside the door; of course this was just my subconscious leaking into my good reason.

         I held the infant away from my body, and then handed him to the doctor.

         “Kill it.” I whispered empathizing the word it to make it clear I was all but kidding. Only the doctor’s face was calm, as if he had expected such. For a minute I almost saw a wave of disappointment in his eyes, as if he was betting on me and I just lost him the big win.

         Then, within a half an hour after having my first child, he was gone—dead. I would never hold him again. Never teach him to talk, to walk, to even crawl. I would never know his favorite color, if he liked race cars. Maybe he would’ve had amazing talents, like a skilled musician, or an awestruck writer. Maybe his passion would’ve been in reading or drawling. He could’ve amazed the world—changed the world. I would never have the chance to see him off to his first day of school, or put a Band-Aid on his scraped knee after falling off his bike showing off to a girl he was fond of. He would never marry, and I would never cry tears of joy at his wedding. He would never have a high school graduation, because he would never have begun the treacherous path of high school. He would never turn sixteen and get his very own car. He would never make me laugh by telling me a joke he had learned, would he have been a stand-up comedian? The only thing I would be able to attend and do for him, was go to his funeral and cry, only that wouldn’t happen because it was illegal. Those were the thoughts playing through my head as that doctor walked away carrying my son to his doom.

         And I never even told him, I love you.

Present Day

         Mondays were my laundry days, and I wasn’t complaining because I loved doing the laundry. I had a set schedule for every day. Sunday, was my day for church, obviously as it was for most people. Monday, as I said before, was laundry day. Tuesday was mopping the kitchen floor day, one of my least favorite things to do. I often vacuumed as well on Tuesday. Wednesday was clean out the refrigerator day, and also the day when my favorite soap opera came on. Thursday was babysitting day, when I watched Sally Ann’s six year old daughter after she got done with AM. Kindergarten since Sal had to work the second shift on Thursdays. Then Friday was grocery store day, I liked to have all the things I needed to relax on Saturday and be lazy again.


         And that’s about as exciting as my life gets.

         I was making my bed, when I realized I didn’t have to. I stripped all the sheets off, recalling that it was in fact, Monday. Then I hurried down the hallway and into the laundry room. I stuffed my entire bed covering into the washer and began my first load for the day. Then I walked back down the hallway, past my bedroom and into the kitchen. I began rummaging through stale cereal, and molded bagels. Hardened donuts and oatmeal I just bought Friday— hoping to jump start a healthy new diet change. Who was I kidding though? I hated oatmeal! I grabbed the cereal since it looked more appealing than the discolored bagel and made a mental note to clean out cabinets early this week.

         After eating my cereal I went to take a shower—the worst part of my day. Don’t get me wrong, I love showers and I love taking showers and I always will. It’s just when I’m home alone and have to take a shower I get spooked. First of all there’s always that voice in your head telling you that the demon in the mirror is watching you bathe, then you think that the demon is going to attack you. It’s going to pull the shower curtain back when you least expect it to, and then BAM! You’re subject to a demon slaying murder and no one will know what happened to you. Plus the demon destroyed your face so horribly that you won’t even be able to be identified when—and if the police ever discover you. Then your family will never know what happened and it will be a whole big mess, and why? Because you took a shower when you were home alone. That is why my showers are ruined by constant fear, and that is the very last time I ever watch A Haunting before bed.

         I had just finished my shower, and I was drying my hair with a towel. I had on my old gray sweats with a hole in the bottom left corner of the leg close to my feet, and a big stain from something like hot chocolate or gravy running from the middle thigh to the tip of the kneecap. I had on my old pink tank top with purple straps and I looked much more like a teenager than a woman in her early thirties. No one was here to see me anyways; so it didn’t really matter. Leaning over I worked the towel through my hair giving it the wavy curly effect that my hair maintained for a few minutes after being wet. Then it puffed up irrevocably and was so horribly unattractive that I never could let my hair air dry before going out in public.

Then I heard the knock on my door, three quick, almost hesitant knocks.

         I stopped dead in my tracks. Oh dear Lord, please not now, don’t let the demon actually get me.

         I scooted my feet towards the front door which was around the corner down the hall. It felt like an eternity to get there, and I was certain that by the time that I actually reached the door the person would think I wasn’t home and would’ve left anyways. But they knocked again, and sent my heart into an uproar a second time.

         You’re being silly, I told myself, it’s just the mailman, or a neighbor. Of course, my mail probably went to the wrong house. Maybe my cat Stu got out again. Maybe Sally wouldn’t need me to babysit again—okay, miracles don’t happen that often! Only, when I pressed my eye to the peep hole in my door, I saw a man. He was familiar in a sense, but I had never met him before. He was beautiful, but not in the attractive way. He was too young for me, but I still felt as if he had lived much longer than it seemed. He nervously ran his fingers through his hair and knocked again. Just a minute I said, and then left the door rushed to my room and got into the proper attire. I was halfway back down the hallway when something stopped me in my tracks; something like common sense.

         An unfamiliar man just showed up at my door, I don’t know him, but he must know me. I’m just going to go and let him in like it’s nothing? He could be some serial rapist or murderer for all I know. Only something, deep inside, insisted on letting him in. I wasn’t ready to die; I wasn’t even close to being ready to. When I began walking back to that door however, I had set myself up for suicide. I was very clearly aware of the consequences that would come from opening that door. He was young, but he looked strong. He could easily over empower me with even my toughest fight.

         When I opened the doors, he had a very deep and dark expression on his face. One that made my entire body go cold and I realized at that moment that I had made a crucial mistake.

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